


Bruises

by Hatterized



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Guilt, Hurt Rick, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-27 00:03:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15673965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hatterized/pseuds/Hatterized
Summary: Rick gets injured on a run and keeps it quiet from everyone- especially Negan.





	Bruises

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



It’s so, so stupid how it happens.

Rick’s on a solo run, because that’s what they have to do now just to make ends meet and make sure nobody goes hungry. They used to have a rule that nobody went out further than an hour or so without a partner, just for safety. There’s a lot to be said for the buddy system.

These days, they can’t afford to have everyone grouped up and going in the same direction. If they come up short, that just means it’s been a wasted trip for two people.

Not everyone goes out alone. At first, Rick insisted that he be the only one, setting an example as the leader while also putting his people’s needs and safety before his own.

 _Penance_. That’s what it really was, and he knew it. It was his self-inflicted punishment for getting them into this whole mess with Negan and the Saviors in the first place. If anyone deserved to be put in danger to scavenge for the Saviors, it was him.

Of course, Michonne had seen right through that and insisted that there were others who would be safe travelling on their own. Herself, Rosita, Aaron- people who knew how to stay on guard and were intimately acquainted with self-preservation and the area beyond the walls.

He hadn’t liked it, but in the end it hadn’t been his choice. The need was too great, and they were already down five of their best people. Two dead, one captive by the Saviors, two at the Hilltop.

Every time Rick watches one of his friends- his _family_ \- leave to scavenge alone, it's like a stone settling on his chest, making his steps heavy and breathing shallow.

_If they don’t come back it will be because of me._

Really, he can't afford to think like that anymore. He tries to take comfort in the fact that everyone else still has to partner up when they go beyond the walls, tries not to let the constant fear and nauseating guilt keep him from providing for his community.

Today is his second morning out in a row. He wakes with a crick in his neck and a low ache in his back from sleeping curled on the hard metal floor of the van, and he feels ancient.

_Should be used to this by now, sleeping on the floor every night at home._

It’s not even a particularly bitter thought at this point, because it’s mostly of his own choosing that he still hasn’t replaced the mattress Negan stole on that first pickup week. Like everything else, it just causes a dull ache in him- the memory of Michonne’s face, full of sorrow and rage, when she told him that she’d found piles of their mattress less than a mile up the road, burning.

Like everything else with Negan, taking them had been a lesson. The whole thing made him sick- he'd thought that, at the very least, Negan would be using the mattresses for his own people. Putting them to good use. With the world like it is now, outright destroying things like that seemed senseless and depraved. He would have preferred for Negan to hoard them back at his own compound, even if nobody used them. 

Rick had immediately began rounding up replacements, going out with trucks to gather up new ones from nearby houses and stores. The injured and elderly came first, then children, then everyone else.

There are very few without mattresses now, and Rick is one of them. It doesn’t really _matter_ , he thinks, because he’s rarely at home, and when he is, he’s rarely able to sleep. When he does, it’s on the couch or in Judith’s room, sleeping on the floor beside her crib like a watchdog, ears pricked for the telltale rumble of engines at the gate that signal Negan’s arrival.

Sunlight is just beginning to stream through the spindly trees he’s parked among, the glow still close to the ground. He glances at his watch- it’s only just past six.

The day starts off well enough. He’d spotted a warehouse close to the road late last night, but knew better than to go in while it was dark. Now it’s perfect, the place lit with daylight. The ceiling has caved in here and there, the weight of leaves and rainwater rotting it clean through, so there's an ankle-deep layer of stagnant water to wade through, but nothing unmanageable. He’s able to scale a few of the sturdier shelves, ignoring his aching muscles, and take out the majority of the walkers roaming the place from a safe height using a rifle he’d found the day before. The rest are easily dispatched with his axe, and when he’s able to actually search the place? Oh, it’s _finally_ something good.

Canned food. Loads of it, so much that he nearly weeps at the sight. Vegetables, beans, meat, even a few with mixed fruit. He recalls the barren shelves of the pantry back in Alexandria and feels something close to pride for the first time in weeks.

He loads all of it into the back of the van, scouring every inch of the warehouse until he’s sure there’s nothing else there. One can could be the difference between a skipped meal or a full belly.

He’s just about cleared the place when he sees it- three more cans stacked atop one of the higher shelves in the back. Easy enough, he thinks- grab them quick and he’ll be on his way.

It all goes wrong in a matter of seconds. When he goes to boost himself up to the top shelf, he hears the crack of rotting wood giving way beneath his grip, and then everything is crashing down around him as he hits the ground with a wet smack, taking the unsteady shelf with him. On the way down he feels himself slam into another lower shelf, taking the blow hard in the ribs, and before he can think he’s landing squarely on his right side, the pain and impact knocking the breath out of him and leaving him gasping. 

Soaked to the bone and smarting from the fall, he tries to push to his feet- a mistake. The moment he puts the slightest bit of pressure on his right arm, he crumples and hisses in pain. It feels like his arm is splintering from the inside out, and for a second he thinks it’s broken- but he can move it just fine, there are no lumps, nothing’s cut him. Once the shooting pain dies down, it seems to all be radiating from his wrist. Well- that and his ribs, which are smarting from the shelf. He’s probably going to have some nasty bruises in the morning, but hey- the cans fell when he did. Three more helpings of creamed corn.

It’s a one-handed drive home with his right cradled in his lap, still throbbing with the kind of pain that promises to get worse if he dares to use it. His soaked socks and boots are sitting on the floor of the passenger side to dry out a little, and every time his bare foot has to shift from the gas to the brake, he feels a twinge in his hip. Irritating, but nothing he can't handle. As for his ribs, well…it’s probably just bruising, and there’s no way he can in good conscience use any kind of pain medication they have stocked. Those are for people who are seriously injured. How will he feel if someone, if Carl or Michonne or Tara, gets hurt and they need those meds? _No_ , he reasons. _I’ll deal with it._

* * *

It’s late when he gets back, and Rick’s eyelids are growing heavy despite the constant nag of pain keeping him awake. He’s grateful when Eric and Olivia offer to unload his haul so he can get some shut-eye. They’re both noticeably relieved when they make a beeline to the back doors of the van and open the up to see the plentiful stash of food.

All that’s keeping Rick on his feet is the thought of a warm shower and a pillow to lay his head on. It’s what gets him up the stairs, popping his head into Carl and Judith’s rooms to check on them and makes sure they’re both in bed and asleep before he steps into the bathroom and sheds his damp clothes over the tile floor.

A flash of purple catches his eye in the mirror, and when he turns, his stomach drops a little.

_That’s a lot of bruises._

His right side is splotchy red and purple all across his ribs and hip. Now that he’s looking at it more carefully, his wrist looks a bit swollen… _but that’s normal_ , he reassures himself. He can move it, so it’s not broken. Sure, it hurts like hell to move it, but he _can_. It’s probably just a sprain.

The heat and steam of the shower feels like a warm blanket enveloping him, and he’s practically swaying on his feet with exhaustion as the water trickles down his back. He doesn’t even make it downstairs to the couch, just curls up wrapped in the sheets on his bedroom floor, sleep claiming him as soon as his head hits the pillow.

* * *

Waking up is agony.

Rick jerks awake to the sound of wailing down the hallway and his whole body aching like he’s been hit by a truck. He’s not entirely sure how he managed to sleep through the night, because just breathing in is making his chest feel splintered.

“Shit, _shit_ -” he clambers slowly to his feet, trying to ignore the throbbing in his side and the back pain that he truly hopes is just from sleeping on the floor.

Judith’s awake and gripping the bars of her crib, big fat tears streaming down her chubby cheeks. “Shh, sweetheart, it’s alright, hey…” Rick gingerly lifts her into his arms, wincing and poising her on his left hip. She’s still hiccupping with small sobs, but they’re fading with each kiss Rick plants to the top of her head, each soothing whispered word. He hums _Hey Jude_ to her as he carefully descends the stairs, and she clings to his neck.

“What time did you get home?” Carl’s sitting on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table, fiddling with a Rubix Cube that Michonne brought back from her last run.

“Pretty late. I didn’t want to wake you up.” Rick plops Judith on the couch beside her brother and she immediately dives for the stuffed rabbit she’d left there the day before. It’s worth nothing that Carl doesn’t exactly shy away from the kiss his dad plants on the top of his head, but he doesn’t seem to appreciate it. It’s a trend Rick has noticed in these past few weeks. At first, he’d thought it was because of what happened with Negan, when Rick had nearly been forced to cut his own son’s arm off. The memory of it still makes Rick nearly ill with guilt and terror, but he’d sat Carl down one night not long after that night in the clearing and made sure they’d talked it through.

No, Rick has a sinking feeling that Carl’s issues with him go beyond that incident. It’s the same reason Rosita’s angry with him, why so many of the Alexandrians are: they think Rick is weak because he submitted to Negan.

Sometimes, when Carl thinks he isn’t looking, Rick sees how he looks at him- like he’s disgusted, ashamed of him. Like all he can see now is the man that was on his knees for another man, bawling and begging for mercy for his people, for his son.

Every time he sees it, it guts him. It’s bad enough to see his friends look at him like that, but his _son?_

Even worse, it reminds him of Shane.

_You’re not built for this world, Rick._

Maybe Shane was right. Maybe he’s not fit to lead, not fit to make decisions for the rest of their group. It’s because of him that Glenn and Abraham-

“I’m going on a run with Tara and Michonne today,” Carl says impassively, like he hasn’t just plunged Rick’s heart into a cold vat of terror. “It’s not far. Michonne said we’d be back before tomorrow.”

“Carl,” Rick begins, already knowing that what he’s going to say will fall on deaf ears, “maybe you shouldn’t-”

“I want to _help_.” Carl stands with his arms crossed, a defiant, determined look on his face. “I want to do something worthwhile. I’m going. Michonne and Tara already said I could.” He’s off the couch before Rick can get another word in edgewise. “I’m gonna go grab my stuff.” Before he leaves, he plants a kiss on Judith’s head, and a spark of fatherly warmth comes alive in Rick’s chest. “See you later, Jude.”

“Carl, _wait_.” The boy gives an irritated huff, thinking his father’s going to try and talk him out of going, but Rick knows better. “Just…wait here for a second, okay? Just a second.”

He makes his way back upstairs, grabs his hatchet off the dresser in his bedroom. Carl knows his way around a knife, knows how to watch out for himself and others even without the added safety of a gun. But this hatchet…it’s kept Rick alive for a long time. He feels safer with it on him, tucked into his belt as a just in case. He’ll feel better if Carl has it, too.

Carl looks surprised when Rick comes down and presents him with the axe, presses it into his hands. “I know that you’re- you’re not happy with how things are right now,” Rick murmurs. “I need you to know that I understand, that I’m not happy about it either. I want you _safe_ , Carl. You and your sister are everything to me. I know you can take care of yourself but just- I’d feel better if you had it.”

Surprisingly, Carl accepts the axe without question, tucking it into the loop of his belt and nodding. “Thanks, dad.” He lets himself be folded into Rick’s arms for a hug, and Rick’s feeling okay, breathing into his son’s long hair and telling himself that he’ll see him again soon- and then Carl gives him the barest, briefest squeeze in return, and Rick doesn’t have time to suppress the sharp intake of breath when the hug puts pressure on his aching ribs. Carl immediately stiffens, letting go and cocking his head up at his dad.

“What?”

Quickly, Rick tries to mask it. “Nothing. Just bruised my ribs yesterday. Still a little sore, but it’s alright.” That skeptical look is still on Carl’s too-wise face. “I’m fine, Carl. Just some bruises.”

He’s relieved when Carl lets it go, waves goodbye and heads out the front door to meet Tara and Michonne.

* * *

It strikes him as a little worrisome when the pain doesn’t subside throughout the day, but really, it’s nothing he can’t handle. God knows he’s injured his right hand enough times that he’s more than capable with his left. He takes extra caution to only use his left side, especially after he begins unloading some sacks of sorghum from Aaron and Eric’s last run and unthinkingly hefts one onto his right hip, nearly dropping the thing on his foot when the shock of pain hits him.

Eric gives him a curious, concerned look. “You alright?”

Rick smooths out his expression with a bit of effort, forcing an empty smile. “Yeah. Just lost my grip for a second.”

If anyone notices that he only carries the sacks on his left from then on, they don’t say anything about it.

* * *

It’s a relief when Carl, Michonne, and Tara return home that night with a few cans, some batteries, a couple first aid kits, and diapers. It’s a good haul for a one-day run. Rick does notice that Carl hasn’t brought anything home for himself, which bothers him maybe more than it should.

He thinks of the prison, of all the times Carl would eagerly wait for Michonne to return from her long trips in hopes that she’d bring him some new comics or a chocolate bar for them to split, like she was Santa with a sack of toys on Christmas. Rick hasn’t seen him pick up a book since the night they met Negan.

He barely gets a _hello_ out of his son before Carl retreats upstairs to takes a shower.

“He did well out there,” Michonne reassures him. “Handled himself just fine.”

It should make him feel better, but all it does is make him worry that Carl going on runs without him will become a regular thing now.

Judith’s already down for the night, so Rick doesn’t feel too guilty about how heavy his eyelids are when he sinks into the plush cushions of the couch. Every muscle in his body seems to melt at the soft touch, the shouts of pain dulling to a low growl.

He’s just begun to doze off when a burst of white-hot pain jolts him back into wakefulness, pulling a yelp out of him before he can stop it. Carl is standing beside him, recoiling his hand from his father’s right shoulder where he’d shook him.

“Sorry! Sorry, dad, I-”

Embarrassed, Rick shakes his head, composes himself. “No, it’s alright. Just started me, I didn’t even realize I was asleep.” He offers his son a small smile that’s met with skepticism. “You alright? How was your run?”

There’s a glow of pride on Carl’s face that both uplifts and terrifies Rick. “It went good. I just wanted to give you this back.” He holds out Rick’s hatchet, all shiny can freshly cleaned. “You were right. It did help me out there. Thanks.”

Rick beams at that, delighted to have helped in some way. “Anytime, Carl. I love you.”

“Love you too, dad.”

Carl bounds up the stairs, and Rick sets the hatchet beside him on the coffee table.

For once, Rick is able to rest even though he knows what tomorrow will bring.

* * *

Morning comes far too soon for Rick’s liking. Dawn is only just breaking, but he’s off the couch and in the pantry counting and re-counting today’s tribute like a man possessed.

_Ten cans of food, two rolls of gauze, a dozen apples, three bottles of ibuprofen, still sealed. Ten cans of food, two rolls of gauze…_

There’s no set hour when the Saviors show up- sometimes it’s at the crack of dawn, sometimes it’s late afternoon, sometimes it’s nearly evening. It’s never with an air of disorder, though- no, it feels deliberate, another way of keeping the Alexandrians on their toes. Still, Rick keeps glancing at his watch like he’s on a schedule.

He can hear the blare of a truck horn at the gate even from inside the pantry, and it sends an irritated shiver up his spine. _Gonna draw walkers doin’ that._

The Saviors are already inside when he gets to the gate- there are only a couple tucks’ worth coming now as opposed to the whole brigade from the first week.

 _Trust_. That’s what Negan said when Rick first pointed it out to him. _We’re tryin’ to build trust here, right Rick? Ain’t no point in wastin’ fuel bringin’ all my boys down here just to scare you when I know you’re gonna be good for me. You are gonna be good for me, aren’t you, Rick?_

Negan’s waiting on him, leaning casually against the front bumper of one of the trucks, whistling to himself and letting Lucille part the air around him with hissing swings that remind Rick of a grandfather clock.

“Rick!” Negan all but bounds toward him, grinning away. Tara’s the one that opened the front gate, but Negan’s only got eyes for the man in charge. “You got somethin’ special for me this week?” His tongue slides between his teeth. “I bet you do.”

He’s close enough that Rick can tell that he’s wearing some kind of spicy-smelling aftershave. His face is smooth and clean, not a nick on him. It makes Rick think of the last time he’d shaved himself bare, how he hadn’t done it in so long that he’d taken a bloody sliver out of his chin.

“The tribute’s in the pantry.” Rick begins. “If you-”

Negan’s arm loops tight around Rick’s shoulders and he squeezes, not hard enough that it would normally hurt, but today it’s enough to make Rick suck in a sharp breath and sink his teeth into his tongue to keep from making any other noise.

“Well how about you and me take a look to make extra fucking sure, huh Rick?” Negan thankfully chalks up Rick’s tense shoulders to him being so close. Rick walks in reluctant tandem by his side, all too wary of the disapproving gazes from the other Alexandrians who have chanced coming out of their homes to witness the spectacle.

That's exactly what he feels like, too- a spectacle, a toy that Negan trots around town to show off. Degrading and humiliating him seems to be one of Negan's favorite things. 

In the pantry, Negan has Rick meticulously count out all the tribute bit by bit. Honestly, Rick doesn’t mind this part much- it’s insurance. If Negan’s here with him approving his count, he can’t come back saying they were short on this or that.

They haven’t been short yet, but these are their last full bottles of painkillers. The thought weighs heavily on him as Negan rolls one in his hand.

A leather-clad thumb presses to a sore spot on Rick’s jaw, and he flinches away instinctively. He'd forgotten that he still had a couple bruises shadowed beneath the grey of his beard. He hoped that nobody would notice. Negan hums with amusement.

“Somebody clock you, Rick? Anyone else I need to take care of for you?”

Rick’s eyes go wide with fear. He closes his eyes and sees Spencer on the ground, clutching at his entrails as they spilled from him. “No. No, I- it happened on a run.”

Negan hums, lets Rick keep counting.

“You go out on your own, Rick? Find much of this yourself?” He’s pressed up against Rick’s right side, too much of his weight bearing down on Rick’s shoulder. It’s making his knees tremble, ribs and shoulder screaming.

“Yeah,” he answers. “Got lucky with the canned goods this week.”

Negan plucks one right out of Rick’s hand, their fingers brushing as he takes it. “Hot damn! Pork and beans?” Rick just blinks at him, unsure if he’s actually expecting an answer since he just read it on the label. “You really know how to treat a man right, Rick. This shit’s my favorite. I could eat this for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.” He’s beaming, and Rick’s alarmed to notice that he’s _happy_ \- or as happy as he can be these days- that Negan’s pleased. It’s only because he knows that pleasing him is in everyone’s best interest, but still- the thought of Negan’s happiness being connected to his own in any way unnerves him.

Negan’s still twirling the can between his hands. “You got any more of these?”

Rick does his best not to snap that _I counted out all the cans for you already_. “A couple.”

“Sweet!” Negan shoves two of the tribute cans- lima beans and carrots- back into Rick’s hands. “How about you switch those out for me, Rick?”

It’s downright ridiculous. Rick’s reminded of when Carl was eight and refused to eat anything green that wasn’t sour apple flavored. He's tempted to tell Negan to e _at your damn greens,_ but pork and beans isn’t a hill Rick’s willing to die on.

He shoves the cans onto a shelf away from the tribute and reaches for the extra cans of pork and beans, which are on the top shelf. He feels ridiculous and small, stretching on his toes to reach something Negan could have easily grabbed himself. His shirt rides up a little, and he jolts hard when he feels a prod to his sore hip, sending the cans skittering to the floor. He whips around, one hand protectively over the hip Negan touched. “You mind?”

Negan’s frowning in a way that Rick doesn’t like. “Aren’t you fucking _jumpy._ ” He bats Rick’s hand away and begins lifting the hem of his t-shirt, one warm hand smoothing over his skin in a way that's far too intimate for Rick's taste. “You take a spill or something? You’re black and blue.”

Rick jerks violently away, gritting his teeth when his back smacks into the shelves behind him. “I’m fine.”

Negan’s still looking at him in that way that’s making his skin crawl. Like he’s _concerned_. Which can’t be the case.

“Didn’t seem fine to me. You jumped like a scared little bunny and I was the big bad hunter on your cotton-assed trail.”

Rick huffs. “You ever think I just don’t want you touchin’ me?”

The sly smirk on Negan’s face makes him want to back up again, but he has nowhere to go. “No, Rick. I can’t say that thought has ever occurred to me.” He’s too close- one hand on the shelf bracketing Rick in and the other on Rick’s injured shoulder, light as a feather. He looks like a shark that’s scented blood in the water.

There’s a barely-repressed shudder running beneath Rick’s skin as Negan’s long fingers skim up his neck and come up cup his chin. He doesn’t dare drop his eyes, but he’s terrified of what Negan’s able to see in them.

 _Please_ , he thinks, _please just let it go. It’s nothing. Just let it go._

It’s a relief when he does, when he backs away from Rick, grabs the cans off the floor, and smiles that familiar devil-may-care smile.

He has Rick stick to his side while his men load up the tribute. Before he leaves, he leans in close, one hand low on the small of Rick’s back. He tucks a loose curl behind Rick’s ear and leans in close enough that his breath tickles Rick’s skin.

“See you next week, _Rick_.”

The way Negan says his name, low and rumbling like thunder, makes the word sound dirty. His thumb is drawing circles on the very base of Rick’s spine right above the belt. He’s waiting.

Rick turns into him, nose to nose.

“Thank you.”

* * *

He’s starting to get a little worried.

A week after the initial fall, and he’s still black and blue across his hip, shoulder, and ribs. He’s taken to shooting with his left hand, sleeping on his left side, rocking Judith on his left hip.

At this point, he knows that somewhere along the lines he fucked up by not going to the infirmary, but it’s too late now- what’s done is done, and he’s just going to have to wait it out. The most he does is find an old t-shirt he doesn’t wear anymore and tear a few strips out of it to wrap his throbbing wrist when he goes out to scavenge.

The problem is that he tosses and turns a lot these days. One morning he wakes up on his right side and it feels like he has a knife between his ribs, and it’s then that he almost, _almost_ goes to the infirmary.

On the way there, he sees Tara and Aaron coming back from a run, and his heart stops beating. Tara’s barely on her feet, all but slung over Aaron’s shoulder as they make their way in. Rick bolts over, takes one arm to support her, and tries to keep his voice steady.

“What happened, was she-?” he can’t even think it. Tara- sweet, goofy, lighthearted Tara.

“No. We...we got surrounded. We were taking them out but we got backed up and she fell down a hill. Hit her head, I think her ankle may be broken. Maybe sprained.” There’s a waver in Aaron’s voice that tells Rick just how close a call this was, and it weighs on him like stones dragging him beneath waves.

Rick’s right side is screaming in protest as they walk Tara to the infirmary, but he’s utterly silent. He sinks into a chair when Annie, the closest thing they have to a doctor, begins to look her over.

He thinks about how Denise is gone, and how Tara loved her. How between Tara and Annie, they have a small fraction of the medical skills they had with Denise, who wasn’t even a doctor.

When Rosita bursts in, Rick knows he’s going to get an earful, and he knows he deserves it.

“This is why we don’t need to be out there like this! You’re fucking _lucky_ this was all that happened, Rick! We’re spread too damn thin, and you know it. Aaron said they’d barely slept the night before, no wonder she got hurt!” He can’t even be annoyed that she’s taking her frustration out on him, because he sees the terrified panic in her eyes, how she’s close to tears but won’t dare let them fall in front of him.

“You can’t expect us to live like this forever,” she says.

He wishes he knew an alternative.

* * *

He fucks up.

 _Again_.

He almost misses the tribute collection. He’s been out for three days straight because they’re entirely out of pain medication. Tara was barely able to take any for her broken ankle, and they still need a bottle with at least ten pills for the tribute.

He’s slept a collective four hours over the last three days and he’s swaying on his aching feet. He looks bad, and he knows it- clothes filthy and torn, walking with a pronounced limp because he can’t hold back the way the pain's affecting him anymore. He hasn’t dared to look at the bruises because he can _feel_ them, and it’s not good.

Negan’s waiting for him at the gate, arms crossed in disapproval. “You’re fucking late.”

Rick shoves the bottle of pills into Negan’s hand. “Had to get these.”

He looks away before he can see Negan’s face soften.

“Right in the nick of time,” Negan mutters before popping the lid, counting, and pocketing them. He gives Rick’s shoulder a squeeze and Rick hisses through his teeth. _Stupid._ Negan tenses and lets go. “Hey-”

“Got the rest inside.”

“Rick, are you-”

“Couldn’t find more pork and beans.”

“ _Rick_.”

The firmness of his voice makes Rick’s feet shuffle to a stop. “Rick, you look fucking terrible. How long you been out there?”

He’s too tired to fight, to snap at him and throw up his usual defenses.

“Three days.”

There’s a long stretch of silence that makes Rick uncomfortable, and then Negan’s hand is on his back, and Rick’s so far gone that it feels like comfort instead of control.

“C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up, alright?”

He doesn’t remember agreeing to go, but the next thing he knows, he’s in his house and Negan’s leading him upstairs. He only comes to his senses when he feels the other man’s fingers on the zipper of his jacket.

“What- what are you-”

“Rick, you’re filthy. You’re limping like an old man. Take a shower, and then we’ll talk tribute.” His jacket falls to the floor.

“I’m fine.” He just wants them out of Alexandria. He’ll be fine once they leave.

Negan’s frown deepens. “You haven’t been taking care of yourself. I like my people to be taken care of, Rick. I don’t want you doin’ this shit to yourself anymore, you hear me?”

That riles him. “You think I have a goddamn  _choice?_ ” He shoves Negan away with his good hand and hears the rattle of pills in his pocket mocking him. “It was this or you doin’ god-knows-what to my people. I was out there for _you_.”

Negan’s back in front of him, both hands on the hem of Rick’s t-shirt. “Get in the shower, Rick. Don’t make me force you. I’m tryin’ to do you a fucking favor here.”

Rick tries to yank away, only it’s not in enough time. Negan gets his shirt up just enough to see the mottled rainbow across Rick’s skin- black and blue and purple and sickly green-yellow at the edges. Panic wells in Rick’s chest- panic and _shame_.

_Can’t even take care of yourself. Your people. What kind of leader are you?_

Negan speaks first, voice tight.

“What the hell happened?”

“It’s noth-”

“Don’t you fucking dare say that it’s nothing, Rick! I just saw that shit! Looks like you got hit by a goddamned bus.” The rage in his voice brings Rick back to that night in the woods, fingers digging into his cheeks as Negan screamed in his face. “Take your fucking shirt off. Don’t make me tell you again.”

Humiliated, Rick obeys, clumsily pulling the thin grey fabric over his head and letting it drop to the floor beside his jacket. Negan sucks in a harsh breath and steps in closer.

“Rick,” he says quietly, fingers feather-light against the grotesque bruising across Rick’s ribs, “why the fuck didn’t you take care of this? This is the same shit that I saw last week, isn’t it?”

Rick thinks it’s a bit rich of him to be asking such an obvious question.

“Everybody’s got to make sacrifices,” Rick says, eyeing the way Negan’s touching him. “Just a few days ago a woman broke her ankle on a run. Needed stitches, too. We didn’t have enough for her. She’s in pain. There’s more…there’s a lot of people here. People who could get hurt, and I can’t-” _I can’t take anything from them when it’s my fault that they don’t have enough in the first place._ He can feel himself trembling, and only just manages to stop speaking before his throat gets too thick and tears come.

Negan regards him with inscrutable eyes before drawing the bottle of pills out of his pocket, shaking two out into his palm, and handing them to Rick. “Take these.”

“No.”

“Dammit, Rick, take them. You’re in pain. Fucking _take_ them.”

“There are people who need them more than me.”

Negan shakes the plastic bottle. Eight pills left. “I’ll give you this whole fucking thing if you take those two right now.”

Rick grits his teeth. Pops the pills and swallows them dry. Negan grins.

“Good boy.” He pulls his radio off his belt. “You got a doctor here? A good one?”

“No,” Rick says. _Your men killed her._ “She’s- she can set a break with some help, but she's still learning. We lost our last doctor recently.”

“I’m callin’ mine, then. So you get in the shower, clean yourself up, and I’ll have my man here to take a look at you and anyone else that’s hurt. That sound good to you, Rick?”

“The others first.”

Negan exhales like Rick’s being difficult. “No, Rick. _You_ first. You wanna know why?” Rick doesn’t respond, but Negan leans in and tells him anyway. “Because you fucking lied to me. And I don’t like that shit.” He pulls away. “Get in the shower. I’ll be waitin’.”

* * *

When Rick steps, towel-clad, into his bedroom after a long shower, Negan and the doctor are waiting for him. Negan pats the bed.

“Pop a squat, Rick. Let’s get this over quick so the good doctor can take a look at the rest of the fine folks that need it.” It’s a warning- _behave, and you’ll get what you want_. Why Negan cares so much about whether he gets tended to is beyond him. Maybe this is his roundabout punishment since Negan knows he’d rather other people be tended to first. Maybe it’s a way of keeping up appearances- Rick, though he feels like he has little authority at all these days, is the leader, at least according to Negan. If he looks weak, that may reflect poorly on Negan.

The doctor is impassive as he takes in the damage to Rick’s body. “When did this happen?”

“About a week and a half ago.” The way Negan’s looking him over- gaze lingering on his bare chest and legs- makes him uneasy, and he’s too aware of how little the towel is covering. He’d wrongly assumed he’d have time to get dressed. “On a run. I was up a few shelves tryin’ to reach some cans and the wood was more rotted through than I thought. Landed on my right side. The shelf caught me in the ribs.” Negan’s twisting the bedsheets in his fist like they owe him money. Rick clutches the towel a little tighter around his hips.

The doctor does some more poking and prodding, feeling the bones of Rick’s wrist, his arm, down his ribs.

“You haven’t been shooting with this wrist, have you?”

“We don’t have guns here anymore.” Rick manages to look Negan squarely in the eye for that one. 

“That may have been a saving grace for you, because it’s badly sprained. The recoil would have made it worse.” Never mind that Rick’s just been shooting with his left for the last week whenever he manages to find guns on runs. “Broke two of your ribs, though. You really should have had this looked at when it first happened. It’s just going to take longer for you to heal properly now.”

“Rick’s got a bit of a martyr complex,” Negan answers for him. “He’s not gonna do this shit again, though. Ain’t that right?”

“Right,” Rick spits out.

The doctor’s gentle fingers stall when they meet the towel. Rick swallows hard, eyes on the floor.

“I’m fine.”

Negan growls beside him. “You were limping. You’re bruised. Drop the damn towel and let the doc look at you, Rick. This isn’t middle school gym class, nobody’s gonna laugh at your dick.”

Rick awkwardly allows the doctor to help him to his feet, and despite Negan’s reassurances, he keeps the towel held firmly in front of his groin while the doctor feels along his hip and down his spine. He keeps his eyes on the floor and wishes that he couldn’t feel Negan’s gaze burning into him and making his face hot.

“Got some deep bruising. Definitely some muscle strain, which isn’t surprising if you’ve been going out like this for over a week.”

“What’s the verdict, doc? He gonna live?” Rick resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“He’ll be fine,” the doctor assures Negan. “Needs to rest for a little while, though. Get some sleep, take something for the pain, don’t strain anything again.”

“I can’t just sit around,” Rick protests, turning to Negan. “We just barely made tribute this week. That was with me out there. You can’t stop me from-”

“Carson, you go tend to the other people at need it, alright?” Negan cuts him off. “Let me talk to Rick here.”

“His wrist still needs to be wrapped.” There’s an actual bandage on the bed that looks like it’ll help more than Rick’s t-shirt scraps.

“I’ll do it. Go on. I know how.”

Carson scurries, leaving them alone in the tense quiet of Rick’s bedroom. Negan tugs up the left sleeve of his jacket to reveal a wrap of white disappearing halfway up his forearm. “I wasn’t bullshitting him, by the way. Just in case you were worried I was gonna wrap you up all wrong.” He takes Rick’s hand between his own, smoothing a thumb over the aching bones. “Old injury from my coaching days. Turns out if you swing enough bats and catch enough balls, it can make your joints do some dumb shit. My weapon of choice doesn’t help, but she _is_ cool as fuck.” Negan grins. Said weapon is leaning against the wall right outside the bathroom, which Rick finds odd. Why didn’t he bring her in with him?

He remembers something Negan said that first night- “ _She’s a vampire bat!”_ \- and nearly laughs.  _Maybe she has to be invited inside._

“Now, Rick. I need you to listen real close, alright? You’re not going to be goin’ out and gettin’ yourself hurt again this week, you hear me? And before you flip your shit again, hear me out.” He begins wrapping Rick’s wrist with surprisingly gentle deftness. “I’m givin’ you a week off. Only thing I’m gonna be checkin’ on next week is you, to make sure you heeded the doctor’s orders. And mine. That sound fair to you?”

Rick chews on the inside of his cheek. He hates that he almost feels grateful. “Fine.”

Negan’s chuckle is deep and amused. “You are one stubborn son of a bitch, Rick Grimes.” He rubs over the bandages one last time. “That feel alright?”

It does. “Yeah.” And then- “Why the hell do you care if I get hurt? Long as your bottom line gets met, why’s it matter to you?”

“People are a resource. A valuable one.” He looks Rick up and down, and the sudden earnestness in his voice is gone. “Plus you’re a damn treat to look at every week. Seriously, your ass is just-”

Rick bolts off the bed, face flaming, both hands on his towel. “I’m gonna get dressed now." He definitely feels Negan's eyes following him as he grabs some clean clothes. "Thank you for- for doin’ this.”

It’s the first thank you for Negan that he’s genuinely meant.

 


End file.
